


Songbird

by ghostofgatsby



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Urban Magic, Blues, Fae manipulation, Gen, Magic, Manipulation, Urban Magic Yogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 00:30:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6633436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smith mounts the stage and walks into the spotlight where a mic beckons for him.<br/>The air is humid from the concentration of people in the room. Every inhale he takes is thick with incense and smoke, and it makes him dizzy.<br/>But he can't faint on stage. The magic prevents him from it.<br/>Smith slowly wraps his hand around the microphone before him. His fingers slide down the stand. He can feel the magic start to stick to him, collecting, waiting to pull everything his has out through his song. His stomach twists, because he knows what comes after a stellar performance- pain and a broken voice.<br/>But Smith opens his mouth and sings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Songbird

**Author's Note:**

> A while ago I was thinking about dark magical manipulation, and listening to blues.  
> Thus, this happened.
> 
> alternate UMY-verse than my other work. not a specific world, though. can be read completely on it’s own. Feel free to craft your own versions of it.
> 
> blues music for ambiance:  
> Way Down We Go- Kaleo (I like this one the best)  
> On the Road Again- Jack Broadbent  
> Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene- Hozier
> 
> cw: fae? manipulation (it’s magical, not sure if it’s fae-related or not), manipulation, abuse; mentions of violence, death, and blood, smoking  
> If I need to tag something else, let me know.
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2016/04/23/songbird-ghostofgatsby/

"Please,” Smith pleads. His voice is so rough it’s almost a whisper. “I'm so fucking tired of..."

"I don't fucking care if you're tired!” His manager snaps with a scowl. “You sing tonight!"

The man pokes his finger hard into Smith’s chest. Smith can swear he hears it echo with every prod against his breastbone. Like tapping a glass aquarium. _Ping. Ping. Ping._

“Like fucking hell you’re taking a break. You’re singing tonight, no objections.” _Ping. Ping_. “If you want my fucking kindness, you'll work for it.” _Ping._ Smith’s manager shoves his shoulder as he steps away, the smell of cigars carrying after him like a shroud. The smell of him makes Smith sick.

“Fifteen minutes until you’re on stage. _That's. It._ " He threatens. He slams the door shut on his way out of the room.

Smith sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. It hurts to swallow. The song will come tonight whether he wants it to or not. Any protests are worthless. He rubs his throat and pours himself another glass of tepid water from the pitcher on his unused desk.

This isn’t the first time he’s been forced to sing for his room and board. Even though this place is shit, he has nowhere else to go. Smith sips his water and rubs his arms to banish the chill. The winter air cuts under the boarded up window. It’s never warm enough in here. Not like it is on stage, where the lights burn his skin.

Smith sits back down on the small cot he has as a bed. He can't let himself close his eyes, because if he does he'll fall asleep. And he can’t afford that. Instead, Smith goes through tonight’s lyrics in his head. He can't afford any mistakes this time. His manager has made that clear too many times.

Smith drinks his water and rubs his tired eyes.

Fifteen minutes. He’d best make it count.

 

When Smith’s time is up, he leaves the room. He walks down the short hallway to the stage, hearing the murmur of the crowd just behind the curtain wall. His manager gives him a steely nod where he stands just out of sight of his guests.

Smith mounts the stage and walks into the spotlight where a mic beckons for him.

The lights make him blind. The heat makes him start sweating immediately. The air is humid from the concentration of people in the room and the blasting of the heating through the vents. Every inhale Smith takes is thick with incense and smoke, and it makes him dizzy.

But he can't faint on stage.

The magic prevents him from it.

Smith slowly wraps his hand around the microphone before him. Black, empty faces stare back. He looks away from the crowd for a moment and gives a slight nod to the band on his right.

They start up a dark bluesy rhythm. Careful piano, steady drumbeat, easy-going guitar.

Smith taps his shoe. His fingers slide down the microphone stand. He can feel the magic start to stick to him, collecting, waiting to pull everything his has out through his song. His stomach twists, because he knows what comes after a stellar performance- pain and a broken voice.

But Smith opens his mouth and sings. Soothing and soulful. His trembling voice calls out, the notes ripped from him, and his words a wail. Singing blues is taking the wild emotions from inside you and letting them loose. Smith lets loose every performance. He gives it his all every night. He has to, to survive, but it's a shame his only outlet is because of the shackles on his voice. When he’s done, he can hardly speak. _And isn’t that poetic justice_ , he thinks. _Singing for a life, and dying every night instead._

His heart feels like it's made of iron. All he wanted was to succeed, but once he got success, it ate him alive. Now he's a puppet for another man's games. Now, he sings of death if only to live again.

Smith wonders when that day will come, when his voice breaks for the last time, and his keeper takes the iron pipe from the hole in his wall and beats him with it. His fists hurt enough.

But Smith sings. He sings loud and harsh, and screams internally as the song rips loose. It comes to an end with a sharp shout and a rim shot on the snare drum. It cuts off so suddenly, the crowd is uncertain if it’s over. They applaud politely. There are a few cheers, but it doesn’t sate Smith like it used to. It never does.

Smith closes his mouth, and tastes blood on his tongue. He lets go of the microphone.

The spotlight on him goes out, and he vacates the stage and returns to his room.


End file.
